Звезда Пандоры

When the BMW’s drive array indicated they’d reached their cul-de-sac, Renne switched to manual to steer the car along the last few hundred meters. The road wasn’t even broken stone anymore, just tire tracks of dusty sand in the dense yellow-blue queengrass. Three local police cars were blocking the way. Several rented cars were parked on the verges in front of them, with reporters arguing with police officers.

“How did they get here so goddamn fast?” Tarlo asked.

“Who knows,” Renne said. “They smell misery the way vultures smell carrion. You want to deal with the local police?”

“Sure.” Tarlo grinned, slipped his sports sunglasses on, and opened the door.

She watched him saunter over to the sergeant in charge. Tarlo was from Los Angeles, eighty-two years old. Not that he gave that impression in the flesh; nine years after his first rejuvenation he still looked as if he was barely out of his teens. His wealthy California family had contributed extensive germline sequencing, one facet of which restricted his natural aging process. They’d also gone for a traditional (or stereotyped—depending on your viewpoint) surfer-kid appearance: slim body, but tall and naturally toned, with lush blond hair and perfect teeth set on a firm square jaw. Tarlo clearly relished his heritage. Why he’d gone into law enforcement was something Renne never understood. “I like puzzles,” was the only explanation he’d ever offered. Personally, she felt he got slightly too much of a buzz out of the Directorate’s covert operations. The little boy who wanted to be a super secret agent when he grew up.

He ought to fit in just fine on Nzega. Which was why she was happy to let him talk to the police. Sometimes there was a lot of resentment within the local law enforcement agency when the Directorate turned up and took over.

She saw the forensics team’s van pull in behind the BMW just as Tarlo and the sergeant laughed together. One of the police cars was driven off the track it had been blocking, and Tarlo waved her through.

The beach cottage was another couple of hundred meters down the track. Tall trees with gray-blue leaves lined the track, providing a degree of privacy for the homes along the cul-de-sac. She caught glimpses of the single-story buildings, built mainly from wood or composite panels; one had been grown from drycoral. A black Merc had drawn up outside the cottage she wanted. Renne had a good idea who that had brought. She parked the BMW behind it, and climbed out into strong humidity and the strong smell of salt water. The trees provided reasonable shade from the fierce morning sunlight, but she still put her own sunglasses on.

“The Halgarths sent their own security team,” Tarlo said as he walked up beside her, holding his linen jacket over his shoulder. He nodded at the Merc. “Police said they arrived about forty minutes ago.”

“How do the police feel about us being here?”

He grinned his broad grin. “Pleased to hand the whole problem over to us. They’ll handle crowd control until Ms. Halgarth leaves.”

“Good.” She watched the forensics team van jolt its way along the track. “Do we know which house the Guardians operated out of?”

“Yep.” He pointed along the shore. “Two down. They obviously had good intel. Police have put a guard on it. The reporters don’t know about that yet.”

“Okay.” Renne straightened her shoulders, adjusted her light jacket. “Let’s get this over with. Put your jacket back on.”

“The boss isn’t here.”

“That’s not the point.”

With a great show of reluctance, Tarlo put his jacket back on, and pulled his tie up. “There’d better be air-conditioning,” he muttered as Renne told the forensics team to start with the other house.

They walked down the narrow front path to the beach cottage. It was a modest little building, made of wood that had been freshly painted lime-green, with a solar cell roof and semiorganic precipitator leaves hanging from the eves. A wide veranda faced the sea. Only the rear and sides of the property were fenced in with trees, giving the cottage a grand view out across the broad cove. A barbecue stood at the end of the veranda, with several chairs and a table on the grass beside it. Empty bottles of exotic cocktails, beer cans, and dirty plates occupied the table, glistening in the fast-evaporating dew.

One of the Halgarth security personnel was standing in front of the door, dressed in a simple navy-blue sweatshirt, and long beige shorts that came down over his knees. Renne tried not to smile when they walked up to him; his image was obviously something he felt strongly about. “Serious Crimes Directorate,” she said solemnly. “We’d like to interview Ms. Halgarth.”

“Sure thing,” he said. “Some identification, please?”

Renne’s e-butler sent an SCD certificate to his e-butler.

“Thank you,” the security man said. He opened the door for them.